


this is the first day of my life

by Acavall



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Reincarnation, a bit of history, and a happy ending i promise, because it's christmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 17:24:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acavall/pseuds/Acavall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four meetings with Harry Styles, in four different lifetimes, on four of Louis Tomlinson's twenty-second birthdays. One day fate will get it right. She swears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is the first day of my life

**Author's Note:**

> I love how meta this fandom gets on the concept of AUs and I was thinking about it a bit too much and well, here we are. Although to be fair, this is not like wildly deep and complex or anything. This is Christmas fic. So Merry Christmas, happy holidays, and joyous birth of Louis, beloved fandom. 
> 
> To me, you are all perfect.
> 
> PS. TW for a character death but it also kind of doesn't count because reincarnation.

 

 

_My left hand will live longer than my right. The rivers_   
_of my palms tell me so._   
_Never argue with rivers. Never expect your lives to finish_   
_at the same time._

Bob Hicok, ‘Other Lives and Dimensions and Finally a Love Poem’

_  
_

_London, 1788_

It is by far the coldest winter of his life, of that he is certain.

Louis breathes out, his breath misting in front of his face with almost perfect clarity. He laughs a little as walks through it.

It’s late in the night, and the dark stretches down the lanes of London, the cobblestone beneath his feet almost tripping him as he goes. But although it is closing in on the last hours of the day, the air remains filled with noises and smells, and Louis feels his heart quicken as he nears his destination.

He glances over his shoulder as he turns the corner, but no one is following him. That suits him fine; he’d be in no end of trouble if his mother found out he’d snuck out again. But working him from sun-up to sun-down couldn’t keep him out of the greater world forever. Not this winter. Not this day.

He can hear the calls of gulls and the faintest sound of violins, and hundreds of voices talking and crying out and laughing and even singing. When he reaches the end of the lane, he emerges onto the South Bank, and his face breaks into delight at what he sees.

The last Frost Fair had been in 1776, when he was nine years old. Now, on the eve of his twenty-second birthday, it had come again to London. The Thames had only frozen over a week prior, if his friend Niall’s account was to be believed, but already the people of London had made quick work of it. His eyes rove over the stalls, the crowds, the men playing instruments to entertain pedestrians and the children skating across the ice along the edges. He can smell roast boar and honeyed wine, and his whole body tingles with delight at this ethereal picture. The lanterns and candles that light the fair twinkle in their icy reflections, dotting the London night with stars upon the ground that stretch away down towards the Blackfriars Bridge.

Louis hurries forwards, reaching the edge of the river where wooden fencing keeps people back from the water’s edge through most of the year. Without a second thought, he slips through the barrier, and shimmies down the stone incline. His feet touch down on the cool ice, and he stands for a second, taking it in.

His mother hadn’t had time to let him come. Her shop kept her, Louis, and any of his sisters old enough to work busy for the run of daylight – and further, at this time of year. By the time they closed up, Louis was dead-tired, and often just wanted to take supper and collapse in his bed. It bothered Niall to no end that Louis would rarely come and see a play or concert, or even just come down to the local pub for a drink.

Tonight though, was December 23rd. At midnight, Louis would turn twenty-two. On January 2nd, he would leave London to take up an apprenticeship in York. It was his last birthday in his home town for the foreseeable future. It was his last Frost Fair, for all he knew. He’d snuck out after the girls were fast asleep.

He breathes in the cold night air, and hesitantly takes a step over the ice. His sole slips where he places it, but he had been cautious enough not to put his full weight on it. He waits until his grip steadies on the ice, and then takes the next step. It’s in this manner, slowly but surely, that he moves until he reaches the carpet that lines the make-shift street upon the ice, made of mats and rugs and hessian bags, piled in rows for people to walk on. Smoke coils through the air, from lanterns and cigars and the spit-roasted meats and flame-grilled nuts. Tents and tables are packed about, sometimes in lazy rows and other times just placed wherever a spare piece of space could be found.

He pauses for a few moments to watch a puppet show, laughing as the little people chase each other across the wooden stage. He can feel the energy of the evening all around, surrounded now by people who are as happy as he is. Louis loves people. At least, in theory. He might be forced the revise this statement if the slightly portly gentlewoman to his right won’t stop jostling him when she laughs. Perhaps it’s time to move on.

Louis winds through the various stalls, eyes flicking over rows of wares. There are watches and shoes and little wooden boxes full of spices, and he sees several things his sisters might like, if he had the money. He makes a few mental notes. One day.

Eventually he finds a booth selling drinks, and selects a mug of hot spiced wine. He rifles through his pockets for change, but comes up several pence short as he drops a handful of coins onto the trestle table.

“We’re not doing charity, my boy,” the vendor murmurs as he watches Louis turn his pockets out, the hope that he’d forgotten a few coins fading as quickly as it had flared.

“That’s fine, I’ll cover what he’s missing,” an unfamiliar voice behind the vendor says, before Louis can figure out how to make an exit without humiliating himself. The vendor turns around with a huff to face whoever is in the stall with him.

“Really Harry?” he murmurs with a tone of fond disbelief, and this is met with a laugh from the person he’s addressing. Then the vendor moves, and Louis can see his rescuer.  It’s a young lad somewhere around his age, though taller, with a head of wild brown curls under a ridiculous fur cap. He also seems to be wearing a woman’s apron without a second thought.

“I can’t accept that,” Louis says cautiously, but the boy shrugs.

“Too late.” He picks up the mug and hands it over the counter to Louis. “Consider it my present to you. Merry Christmas.”

The boy in the silly hat pulls a few extra coins out of the pouch in his apron and pushes them into the vendor’s hand. His eyebrows lift as if in challenge, but the vendor just shrugs at this, rolls his eyes, and moves away from the two of them to the other side of their booth to serve someone else.

“You take pity on would-be-paupers often?” Louis asks, and the boy – Harry – grins.

“We’ve all been there,” he replies, leaning on the counter as Louis takes a sip of his gift. The taste of berries and cinnamon roll onto his tongue and nestle in his bones like sunshine on a wintery morning.

“Besides, with Christmas in two days I can’t afford to neglect a man in need,” Harry continues, “Saint Nick won’t bring me any oranges otherwise.”

The look in Harry’s eyes is something slightly ridiculous as he speaks, cheerfully spouting ridiculous lines as though he’s known Louis forever, is comfortable in his presence. Louis wonders if Harry is like this all the time, with everyone who passes by his booth. He can’t imagine why he himself would be special.

“Actually, it’s my birthday tomorrow,” Louis can’t help but reply, and Harry’s face lights up.

“Brilliant,” he says, his low voice dancing with delight as though he really means it. “Well there you go. Fate.”

“Destiny,” Louis snorts, meeting his eyes with a grin. “Harry, was it? Are you aware that you’re wearing a woman’s apron, Harry?”

Harry nods nonchalantly. “Yeah, my proper one caught fire this morning,” he responds, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. Louis can’t help but stare.

“What, here? On the ice?”

Harry nods. “Yeah. Apparently, the presence of ice doesn’t negate the power of fire if they’re not actually touching. I mean, that’s what I was trying to tell my mate Liam, but he didn’t believe me. So then it all went to hell.”

Louis blinks. He’s not sure he’s had a conversation like this in a while. Granted, most of the people he talks to are his mother’s customers, who are generally rather boring and fussy and disinterested. Not like this boy. Harry’s easy grin has returned as he watches Louis, all traces of self-consciousness gone and replaced entirely by amusement at his own story.

“Right,” Louis returns finally, sizing him up. “Does that explain the hat too?”

“What’s wrong with my hat?” Harry says, clutching one hand to his chest in mock hurt. “It’s dashing, don’t you think?”

“It certainly stands out in a crowd,” Louis agrees grimly, eyeing the fur monstrosity.

“I buy you a birthday drink and this is how I am to be repaid? My hat and I won’t stand for this,” Harry declares dramatically, but he’s laughing openly now, and Louis can’t help the grin that spreads across his features in automatic response.

“On the subject,” Harry continues, glancing at something under the counter, “are you aware that your birthday is in twenty minutes?”

Louis shakes his head. “Had no idea.”

“And how do you intend to usher in your new year of life?”

Louis just shrugs, leaning casually against the booth. “Yet again, not a clue. You work here, any suggestions? What should I be doing when the clock strikes my twenty-second year of being?”

“Hmmmm,” Harry mumurs. He glances behind him. “Ben, do you mind if I take a break?”

Ben the older vendor just waves his hand at Harry, barely glancing at him as he finishes a transaction. Harry beams, slips under the booth and out onto the carpeted street with Louis.

“I just met you,” Louis sputters, and Harry pauses after standing up, leaning cautiously back against the booth.

“Oh,” he says, as though he’d forgotten. “I suppose you did. We don’t have to if-”

“No!” Louis cuts in hastily, reaching instinctively for Harry’s shoulder. His fingers settle there lightly, and he sees Harry’s gaze flicker down to it as the corners of his mouth lift upwards slightly. “No, I’d love to.”

“Alright then,” Harry says, as the warm happiness runs through his features once more. “But first things first. I don’t know your name.”

 “Louis,” he says, dropping his hand from Harry’s shoulder and feeling slightly disappointed by the loss of contact. Louis can’t quite believe that this crazy boy just ducked out on work to spend time with him. He feels his heart thudding in his chest, with excitement and delight and something else that he pretends isn’t there. Something he is used to pretending doesn’t exist.

“Ok Louis. Have you eaten? Because I’m starved.”

Harry doesn’t wait for his answer, just pulls Louis towards a row of tents running off towards the north bank, and they quickly come to a stall selling warm rolls filled with melted butter and cheese. Harry buys them two, hushing Louis’ protests with a forceful look as he pushes one into Louis’ hands.

“It’s amazing on a cold night like this. Trust me. Eat.”

Harry waits until Louis takes a bite of the indeed fantastically good bread, and then leads the two of them back into the maze of the Frost Fair.

“You seem to know this place well,” Louis says as they go, following Harry who seems to be walking with determination in a specific direction.

“I spend every waking minute here,” Harry replies happily. “Ben is my uncle. We run a pub normally, but migrated down here for the Frost Fair while my aunt keeps the place going. This last week I’ve just worked, slept, and run around the fair mostly. I love it here.”

“I wasn’t even supposed to come,” Louis says with wonder. “I had to sneak out. And you’re here all the time?”

“It’s a charmed life,” Harry says with a grin thrown over his shoulder, and Louis tries not to flush despite the chill of the close-to-midnight air.

“So where are you taking me, Harry?”

Harry stops mid-stride, turning to face Louis. “Do you trust me?”

Louis makes a show of looking him over, taking in his gangling limbs and much-mended coat, the slope of his shoulders and green hue of his eyes. “I’ve never been one to trust idiots in silly hats, myself.”

Harry laughs at this, a great bark of a laugh, and he pats the hat on top of his head as if to reassure its feelings. “That’s not a proper answer, Louis.”

“I just met you!” Louis sputters, but he’s smiling, and Harry is too. There’s some kind of ease between them, as if a connection had already existed, just waiting to be seized upon. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, but not an unwelcome one. “Yes, I trust you.”

Harry just winks and gestures for Louis to follow him, as though Louis weren’t already. The fair is still milling and bustling with people who apparently have no regard for sleeping habits. It seems like half of London is still out in the night air, people of all ages and classes, revelling in the magic of winter. In the crowd, Louis loses sight of Harry for a moment, and when he comes into view again the boy is talking with a young blonde girl in a green dress. He gestures to Louis and then himself, and the girl nods and disappears into her tent. She reappears just as Louis reaches them, holding two pairs of shoes. No, not shoes-

“Ice skating!” Harry declares, accepting his pair of skates and turning to Louis. “Tell me, have you ever skated upon the Thames before?”

“I can honestly say that I have not,” Louis replies with raised eyebrows, accepting his own shoes. He sits on a nearby crate and slips his boots off, tying them around his neck before pulling on the hardened leather and tightening the laces as much as possible to compensate for their slightly over-large size. “You might be unlike anyone I’ve met before, Harry.”

Harry accepts this with a flourishing bow, grinning as he sits gracelessly down on a mat and pulls his own skates on. “Well I can’t let you have a boring start to your birthday now, can I?”

“Definitely not going to be boring,” Louis says, sizing up his shoes. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Don’t worry, I’m terrible,” Harry admits, and Louis widens his eyes at him.

“Oh good, so between us we can probably take out the whole of London.”

“That would make it a Frost Fair for the history books,” Harry replies cheerfully, pushing himself upright and managing to stand almost effortlessly. He reaches his hands for Louis, who accepts them carefully. Harry’s fingers are long and slender, his hands fitting effortlessly over Louis’ own, and he pulls Louis to his feet with apparent ease. Louis wobbles slightly in his skates, but they’re still standing on the matting, so he’s in no danger of slipping.

Harry smiles at Louis, their hands still entwined as if he’d forgotten to let go. “You’ve survived the first step. And it’s only – ” he checks a hanging clock over Louis’ shoulder, and then finishes, “seven minutes until midnight. Let’s get on the ice.”

Harry steps one foot over the side of the mat, then another, and then he’s standing on his own two feet with nothing but metal blades between him and the ice. He pulls Louis gently by the hands, until Louis is gingerly placing one foot, then the other, forwards. Louis skids a little, slowly forward into Harry until their chests bump together, and Harry grins down at him.

“You ready?” Harry asks, and for a second Louis almost can’t hear him over the blood thrumming in his ears. From nerves, he tells himself, but he knows there’s more to it than that.  He manages a nod, and then Harry turns and arcs one foot out, gliding forward with Louis being pulled in tow.

“Watch what I do. Push your feet out,” Harry instructs, and Louis manages a clumsy rendition of the movements Harry is making so that he too is floating forwards over the ice.

“That’s it,” Harry says encouragingly, and Louis tries for a bigger arc, standing slightly straighter as he pushes out.

Except this was apparently not the right thing to do, because in seconds he’s flat on the ice, and with Harry’s fingers still locked in his he manages to pull Harry right down with him.

“Oh god, I’m sorry,” Louis groans as his back begins to soak through from where he’s lying. He hears Harry laughing beside him, always laughing, like nothing in this world is worth taking seriously. Harry pushes himself up onto his knees and leans over Louis.

“You’re practically made for this, Louis,” Harry says mockingly, and Louis sticks his tongue out up at him.

“Ssssshhhh,” he replies, sitting upright. “I’m a ground-dwelling mammal. Solid ground.”

“Not when I’m through with you,” Harry says with a dangerous glint in his eye, and Louis hopes he just means ice-skating. At least, he thinks he hopes that.

Harry manages to stand upright without too much effort, and Louis shakily climbs to his feet using Harry’s waist as a steadier. He would be more embarrassed, but to be honest he’s unable to be anything more than just oddly delighted with the whole situation. It doesn’t take too much to get them both up again, and then Harry reaches down and locks his hand in Louis’ again. Louis watches their fingers curl together, and when he glances up Harry is watching him with a surprising level of fondness, considering they’ve known each other for less than half an hour.

And then, as if on cue, a great banging noise rings through the night air, as though someone had let off an enormous canon. As they turn to the source, colours explode through the sky, a single firework bursting on the near horizon in tones of green and red. It shimmers in the air for a few moments as a great, cheerful cry goes up amongst the crowds, and then flickers and dies as the sparks fell back to earth.

“A firework!” Louis whispers in amazement, and Harry nods.

“That’s the midnight marker. Happy birthday,” Harry murmurs, smiling down at Louis. “May the next year of your life bring you everything you’ve ever wanted.”

“Thankyou Harry,” Louis replies warmly. “But right now, all I want is to be able to skate more than a foot without falling on my arse.”

Harry bursts into laughter, pulling away in a slick gliding arc and tugging Louis with him. “Come on then, land-dwelling Louis,” he declares, and Louis does his best to keep up.

The two of them glide over the ice together, in starts and stops as Louis finds his bearings, laughing as they race towards each other and narrowly miss collisions. Harry leads them along the edge of the fair, and Louis follows, taking in the muddle of humanity that has spilled onto the Thames, the lights that flicker and the voices that carry, the feeling of being connected to something big and messy and beautiful. Ahead of him, Harry’s tall figure sways gracefully as he flies over the ice.

 _Twenty two_ , Louis thinks, and his thoughts fly towards the future.

He turns them towards the south bank, and the two of them race in circles until they’re drifting near the edge.

“I should go back,” Louis says regretfully as he drifts to a stop. “Every minute I’m away from home I’m risking the wrath of my mother.”

Harry crosses his arms, floating gently over the ice still but staying in Louis vicinity, like an orbiting planet. “Stay. What’s the worst she could do to you?”

Louis sighs. “She could stop me from going.” He meets Harry’s puzzled expression. “The day after Christmas, I’m leaving London. I have an apprenticeship in York.”

Harry’s face progresses through a number of emotions so quickly that Louis can’t comprehend even the first. Then it settles on concern.

“Ah,” Harry says quietly. “That would not be good.”

It seems as though he’s fighting something else within him, something stronger, but he turns from Louis to glance towards the fair, and when he turns back his face is more composed. Whatever was threatening to break forth is gone.

Louis leans against the stonework of the river bank, works his skates off and slips on his own boots.

“Harry,” Louis says now, watching him. “This was the best birthday present I could have hoped for. Thankyou.”

“Any time,” Harry replies with a wink, his usual levity returning to his voice. He’s stopped moving now, perfectly still on the ice despite his skates. “Good luck, Lou. You’ll do amazingly.”

“You too,” Louis says, because he thinks maybe Harry will be amazing in his life, in every way possible. He can’t stop himself now, he rushes forwards and throws his arms around Harry, pulling him into a hug. They shift as Harry slides slightly on the ice, and then he feels Harry respond, rest his longer arms behind Louis and pull Louis in closer. Louis sighs into Harry’s neck, a stirring in his ribcage that he can do nothing but ignore.

He pulls away sadly, feeling like this is a mistake, but there’s nothing either of them can do otherwise. Even if he were to stay, or to find Harry tomorrow, what good would that do? He has one week left in this city, and he’s known Harry for less than an hour. People can thunder into your life, but sometimes they must thunder out just as quickly. Louis has known that since his father left when he was young.

Besides, even if he could keep Harry, having in his life as a friend might be more pain than he could take. Not when he can’t possibly risk anything more. And he would want that. More. He can admit that to himself, at least while he’s here on the ice under the icy stars, the feeling of Harry’s arms around him ghosting his skin. At least for a minute.

Louis lets out a breath. “Bye, Harry.”

“Bye, Louis,” Harry returns, watching him with wide eyes that don’t break contact even as he bends down to pick up Louis’ skates. Louis reaches for what strength he has in him, and turns away.

And Fate, who had been watching since the mention of her name, decides that that isn’t good enough.

 

 

_Holmes Chapel, 1867_

It’s possible that Fate has a thing for inclement weather. So sue her.

The rain is coming down in icy sheets as Louis trudges across the field, mud spattering his boots and staining his white pants.

“Worst choice of wardrobe possible,” he mutters bitterly to himself as he nimbly hops a fence and succeeds in only ruining his clothing further. At least his coat is thick and keeps the rain from soaking his shirt too thoroughly, and he’d remembered his gloves, which is a plus. He rarely does.

He briefly considers removing his coat and holding it over his head, but at this point his fringe is already plastered to his face anyway, so the results would be distinctly lacking. It’s just the wind that keeps whipping the rain into his eyes, and being that the temperature is hovering close to freezing, he’s surprised his eyelashes haven’t turned to icicles yet. Thank god this year had seen a distinct lack of snow for mid-December.

He can see a copse of trees coming up in front of him as he picks up his pace and he thinks they might be what he’s looking for. As he nears, he sees that they conceal a narrow dirt road, and silently congratulates himself. If he’s right, this must be John Peter's back lane, which means he isn’t too far from the village.

It’s not that he’s bad at navigating, per se. It’s just that normally his walks occur in the crowded streets of Manchester, not in the endless fields of this tiny town that he was temporarily vacationing in. It’s his sister’s fault anyway. She’s the one that wanted to make her entrance to society outside of the ‘big smog’, as she refers to the city. She’s the one that dragged Louis down with her to stay with their aunt and uncle in the countryside.

Louis hops another fence and lands unhappily on the other side, doing his best to ignore the way his boots squelch in the mud. It’s a small road, though he has no idea if it’s the one he was aiming for. Everything in this place is an alarmingly common shade of green or brown, so picking out distinct land markers becomes a bit of a nightmare. He sighs, squints at the washed out sun low in the sky from where it can barely be discerned behind a wall of cloud, and heads briskly in an easterly direction.

Caught up in his thoughts and almost deafened by the sound of the worsening downpour, he doesn’t hear the sound of hooves until they’re almost on top of him. He spins towards the sound and comes face to face with a rearing horse, it’s hooves inches from his nose as he instinctively dives to the side. Someone calls out as he lands in the mud bone-shockingly hard, feels the cold of it sink through the front of his shirt, though his arms had protected his face. One side of his ribs hurt where he landed on them, and he’s now significantly more cold, more wet, and more filthy than he had previously imagined possible.

Louis pushes himself up angrily, wiping the rain and hair from his eyes and staring up at his accidental assailant.

“You nearly killed me!” Louis fumes, as the man on horseback hurriedly dismounts. He’s got a long riding cloak and wide brimmed hat on as protection against the elements, so it’s difficult for Louis to see his face.

“My god, I am so, so sorry,” the rider replies, his voice low and gravelly but genuinely concerned. “I just wanted to get out of this weather, and it’s so difficult to see through this downpour.”

His accent is slightly posh, at least for this part of the country, and as he extends a hand Louis takes it, letting himself be helped to his feet. He’s significantly taller than Louis, lifting him almost effortlessly.

“Please, forgive me,” the man says as Louis reaches his feet.

“I’ll take it under consideration,” Louis replies sourly, checking himself over to see if anything is no longer intact. He’s a right mess, but apart from a few minor grazes and what will surely be significant bruising in the morning, there seems to be no permanent damage. “This is not how I was intending to spend my birthday.”

“It’s your birthday?” the rider asks, surprised. “But it’s Christmas Eve,” he adds, as if this fact were a complete impossibility. The absolute tone of wonder and awe the stranger employed should have been ridiculous, worthy of mockery, and Louis isn’t in a grand mood. But before he can say anything, the rider pushes his hat from where it shadows his eyes, and Louis sees his face.

It’s, well it’s beautiful, in truth. His eyes are as green as the countryside, and his hair frames his cheekbones in messy curls. He’s got an open, honest look to him, and he’s watching Louis with a mixture of concern and curiosity that is blinding in its sincerity.

“People are allowed to be born on Christmas Eve, it’s not against the law,” Louis responds, his tone sharp, but still a good way softer and more amused than he had intended. It’s just that the rider is so raw so immediately, so apparent with his thoughts and emotions. There aren’t people like that in the city.

The rider laughs a little, quiet laugh, watching Louis with dancing eyes.

“I think it still makes you something special,” he says warmly, and extends his hand again. “I’m Harry. Harry Styles.”

“Louis Tomlinson,” Louis replies, accepting the handshake.

“You’re the one staying with Mary and Arthur, aren’t you. The nephew from London.”

Louis can’t help his surprised laugh. “So it’s true then. You country folk are as big on gossip as they say.”

“Probably bigger,” Harry replies gamely. He frowns suddenly, his eyes falling on Louis’ coat. “You’re getting soaked, hang on.” He grabs his horse by the reigns and vaults up onto its back, then extends his hand.

“You’re not serious?” Louis replies, eyeing the beast. It’s not that he can’t ride horses. It’s more that he chooses not to. Particularly ones he’s never met before. They’re…unpredictable.

“Gawain is a good steed, he can take both of us.”

“You named your horse Gawain?”

Harry grins. “Something of a hero of mine.” He flicks his outstretched fingers, motioning for Louis to hurry up, and Louis sighs.

“Really, _really_ not how I was intending to spend my birthday,” he mutters as he takes Harry’s hand and gets a foot in the stirrups. He hadn’t noticed before, but Harrry’s fingers are long and slender, and his own hand dwarfs Louis’ own. It’s a curious thought, and he feels the thrill of attraction spark as it crosses his mind. He pushes that away, and allows himself to be helped onto the horse’s back.

The horse begins to move before he’s fully settled, and he starts when the animal sways slightly, grabbing frantically at Harry’s coat to steady himself.

“You alright there?”

Louis can practically hear the smirk in Harry’s voice. He wishes he didn’t find that equally enticing.

“Fine,” Louis snaps, because he’s irritated at this weather and this day and this horse and particularly at this boy for being so damn attractive, for taking the bite out of Louis’ words against Louis’ will. Damn him. Damn all of this. The country is stupid and should have been left to its own devices, far, far away from Louis.

Begrudgingly, he pushes his arms under Harry’s and holds on to the front of the saddle, trying to ignore the fact that Harry smells like cinnamon and dust. He also smells like wet clothing, like sodden wool. Louis focuses on that.

Gawain moves a bit faster, and they set off at a light gallop, the rain still thrumming down in sheets about them as they move. Mud splashes up from the path, and Louis might not be familiar with farm animals but he can tell the horse is struggling on the sodden, uneven ground. His suspicion is confirmed when Harry makes a noise of frustration.

“This is dangerous,” he says loudly, his voice only just lifting over the sounds of inclement weather and the wind pushing past them. “We need somewhere to wait this out. Hold on.”

Harry directs the horse off the lane, down a small pathway that runs flush with a paddock. Their path is strewn with pebbles and branches and lined with untended shrubbery, and Louis can barely see through the rain in his eyes, but when they round a bend in the track a stone and brick barn comes into view. It’s old and weather-beaten, and as the ground evens out the horse picks up speed as they make for it.

“This belongs to a friend of mine,” Harry explains as he pulls them up outside the building, slipping over the side of his horse and offering to help Louis down. Louis decides to ignore this gesture, using the stirrup to steady himself as he vaults into the mud. He meets the ground hard, his legs not braced properly for the impact.

“Your horse is far too big,” he mutters, ignoring the way Harry’s lips are turned up at the edges, like he’s trying not to laugh. Louis’ never had been the best at general politeness, and right now it’s the furthest thing from his mind. Especially when Harry is so upbeat, so apparently pleased with everything, even while he’s standing in the pouring rain, mud coming up to his knees. He’s possibly not of this world. Or deranged. Or both.

Or maybe the general sense of frustration Louis feels is because he can’t help but find that rather intriguing.

The barn isn’t locked, and Harry leads Louis and his horse inside. It’s fairly spacious, though obviously neglected. The air is dusty and dank, and the bales of hay that line the walls are old and withering. Nothing else seems to be stored in there, save for a few rusted farming implements, and the several horse stalls that line one side are empty.

The noise of the rain billows through the barn, and in the still air Louis is suddenly incredibly aware of how soaked through he is. He shivers, and when he looks over at Harry he finds he is being watched. Harry turns away almost as soon as their eyes meet, leading his horse over to one of the stalls and tying it to the post.

“Is this where you kill me now?” Louis asks darkly, and Harry’s whole face seems to ricochet with surprise.

“I’m sorry?” he half-sputters, one hand clutching at his hat in an almost comedic fashion. He looks like a painting, in that oversized hat and dramatic coat, rain still dripping from the brim onto his shoulders. Louis shrugs.

“Don’t people in the country practice cannibalism? It’s what I’ve heard,” he replies, his voice an absolute deadpan, and Harry is staring and staring and then suddenly his expression crumples into a grin.

“You’re kind of an arse, aren’t you,” Harry says matter-of-factly, and Louis doesn’t know what kind of reply he was expecting but it sure wasn’t that. He practically chokes as he inhales, staring at Harry as the boy finally takes off his silly hat.

“I didn’t know posh country-folk could use such vile words as that,” he returns a little weakly when he regains his faculties, and Harry shrugs.

“We get a yearly allowance. Now hold on,” Harry adds distractedly as he begins to rummage through the saddlebag closest to him, more to himself than to Louis. It takes a few seconds, and then he’s pulling out a rough looking blanket.

“For picnics, usually,” he explains, handing it over to Louis, who accepts it without a word. He shucks off his sodden outer layer, leaving on his trousers and undershirt, and throws the blanket over his shoulders. The warmth is a blessing, and as Louis sinks down against the wall, he feels a shard of his overwhelming annoyance at life and the world in general dislodge. And in honesty, Harry is slightly more surprising than he had anticipated. He likes that in a person.

“Thankyou, Harry,” he says, looking up. Harry is settling himself against the wall of the horse stall, his coat pulled over him like a blanket. “What about you?”

Harry shakes his head. “This thing is fairly water-proof inside,” he says, gesturing at the coat. “My clothes are only damp around the edges. You on the other hand look like someone who’s been fished out of the ocean.”

“Cheers,” Louis says dourly, tugging his blanket so that it covers his chest. He pulls his arms over the top. The wet white fabric clings uncomfortably to them as he settles them across his stomach.

“What were you doing out there anyway?” Harry asks, and Louis shrugs.

“Getting a bit of peace and quiet.” He raises his eyebrows at Harry. "You might not be a cannibal, but ending up trapped in a barn with a complete stranger wasn’t really on today’s itinerary.”

“My apologies,” Harry says, and Louis honestly can’t tell if he’s kidding around, or if he’s really apologising. 

“Not your fault,” Louis concedes, because Harry is watching him with earnest green eyes and it seems like the answer might be the latter. “I’ll have to have a word with the weather sprites next time they’re over to tea.”

“Unreliable bastards,” Harry replies darkly, catching Louis by surprise yet again. His laugh rolls out of him unchecked, and he finds himself staring at Harry. Perhaps Louis is just used to boring company, what with the constant stream of business men and society ladies he finds himself brought into contact with. But this boy is full of the irregular, it would seem.

“So,” Harry says cheerfully, like he finds himself in these kinds of situations all the time, “Tell me about yourself.”

Louis tries not to roll his eyes, leaning against the side of the nearest hay bale. Stray pieces of the stuff are already sticking to his clinging wet shirt. That’s going to be fun to pick out when he’s finally home.

“If that’s the best you can do, I think silence is the answer,” Louis replies, voice laced with sarcasm. He knows he’s being a prickly shit, he just can’t seem to do anything to turn it off. And if he’s honest, a part of him wants to see what Harry will do.

He’s expecting Harry to come back with a retort, some piece of banter perhaps, or maybe for his cheerfulness to finally wear out. Harry, to Louis’ surprise, just smirks at Louis. There’s a glint of something in his eyes, a challenge maybe, and he shrugs and pulls his satchel towards him. Louis knows he’s making a show of it, enunciating his movements as he draws a leather bound book from his bag, meets Louis’ eyes over the top of it.

“Well in that case, I can entertain myself,” Harry says, opening the book to the page marker and sinking down a little against the wall.

Louis is not, _not_ going to take the bait.

Louis is not going to be annoyed that the pretty boy won’t talk to him and is fine with a book, or intrigued that this boy doesn’t seem to bend under Louis’ sass and bite like all the others. Louis is just going to sit and wait for the rain to stop.

Water thunders down around them, the noise billowing through the creaky barn.

“Tell me what you’re reading.”

The demand slips from Louis’ lips before he can stop it, and he scowls at his own impulsiveness. Why can’t he ever hold his bloody tongue?

Harry’s entire face lights up as he lowers the book slightly, like he’d been waiting for Louis to break. Like he knew Louis would.  His hair is dripping at the edges, falling in his eyes, and he looks like he’s so damn pleased with himself. The whole thing should be ridiculous, but Louis is maybe just a little bit turned on.

“Coleridge. It’s his poetry.”

Louis considers this. Harry reads poetry. No, Harry reads poetry passive aggressively at strangers who won’t talk to him. That is phenomenal. Louis wants to give him a round of applause. Instead he settles on engagement, since that’s what Harry clearly wants.

“Read me the end of the one you’re on.”

“The end?”

Louis nods. “I like the ends of things.”

Harry doesn’t move for a second, his wide eyes watching Louis with unreadable thoughts forming behind them. And then he runs his tongue over his lips, wetting them, and his eyes flick downward. Louis follows the motion from beginning to end, and wishes it didn’t stir his insides like rain hammering into mud.

“A damsel with a dulcimer in a vision once I saw. It was an Abyssinian maid, and on her dulcimer she played, singing of Mount Abora.”

Harry glances up hesitantly, as if to check that he’s doing the right thing. Louis smiles encouragingly and nods, closing his eyes. Harry’s voice is slow and sonorous as he continues, spinning the words into colours in the air as Louis listens.

_“Could I revive within me her symphony and song,_   
_To such a deep delight t’would win me, that with music loud and long_   
_I would paint that dome in air_   
_That sunny dome! Those caves of ice!_   
_And all who heard should see them there,_   
_And all should cry, beware! Beware!_   
_His flashing eyes, his floating hair!_   
_Weave a circle round him thrice and close your eyes with holy dread_   
_For he on honeydew hath fed,_   
_And drunk the milk of Paradise.”_

The rain hammers on, rhythmic and unending.

It takes Louis a few moments to realise Harry has finished. He opens his eyes again, slowly, wonders what he’ll find when he does.

It’s Harry, watching him with a shy smile and curious eyes, the book resting open on his folded knees. “What do you think?”

Louis blinks. “I don’t know if I understood it,” he says finally, and Harry crackles with laughter.

“Possibly because you didn’t want to hear the beginning.”

“Beginnings are boring,” Louis says, but without edge. Harry just smiles softly at him, then glances down at the book, his fingers trailing over the edges.

“He lost something,” Harry says, tracing the ink like it’s something precious to him, something that might answer all of life’s mysteries. “He lost something so incredibly important to him, and he knows that he can never make anyone else understand, and that he can never get it back.”

“That sounds lonely,” Louis comments, and Harry nods.

“There’s a word in German for it. _Sehnsucht._ To yearn for something deeply and intrinsically, but something that one can’t quite identify.”

Harry glances up from the book, and there’s the slightest flush to his cheeks, as though he’s embarrassed, perhaps. He looks away almost instantly, his eyes on the barn doors that rattle slightly in the storm’s wind.

It’s Louis’ turn to say something, but he can’t quite make his lips form words. He can’t lift the heaviness inside him to make his tongue move. Because he _knows_ that feeling, knows it like it’s a part of him, a piece of his soul that he will never fully understand. He’d wondered for a long time if anyone else felt the same thing, if maybe it was just something human, but he’d never had the words to ask. And now here was this strange boy, putting names to things like Louis had just been waiting for him, all this time, just waiting.

But that’s ridiculous, Louis thinks, shaking it from his skin. That kind of thinking doesn’t help him. Certainly not about someone he’s just met, no matter how lovely his eyes, how unusual his spirit, how able to stun Louis with a few simple words he seems to be.

And then it doesn’t matter because Louis’ missed his chance to say something anyway. Harry lets out the tiniest huff of breath, like the ghost of a laugh, and when he turns back to Louis his eyes are bright and his expression is composed.

“It’s your birthday on Christmas Eve. That must get frustrating.”

Louis tries not to feel disappointed with himself, tries not to feel like he’s just let something big slip through his fingers. Instead, he pulls on a grin, lets the air back into his lungs.

“Not really. It’s like a two-day festival of me.”

“Jesus might beg to differ on that,” Harry replies, and Louis snorts, tips his head in concession.

“So if it is your birthday,” Harry continues conversationally, “I owe you a gift.”

Louis feels incredulity blossom through him. Who _is_ this person?

“I should say so, especially after you nearly ran me over with your beast out there.”

Harry is smiling, a playfulness in his eyes as he asks, “Certainly. So what will it be, Louis Tomlinson? Jewels? A feast?”

A thought sticks itself to the inside of Louis’ brain, doesn’t let go when he tries to throw it off.

The thing is, he’ll be gone in two days time, back to the big smoke where he belongs. Back to where his mother has Eleanor waiting in the wings, expecting an engagement any day now. He can’t keep putting it off forever. He can’t keep strategically taking long outdoor walks every time he’s backed into a corner with questions about his future. His time is running out.

So, well, there it is. He’s been restless, so god damn restless, he just wants _something_. And he's never exactly been one for self-control.

He decides to throw caution, safety, everything to the wind.

“A kiss,” Louis says, feeling his heart leap into his throat. He could be wrong, so wrong, he could have just ruined everything, his whole life in the blink of an eye. But how much can his life be worth, anyway, in the face of what’s to come? How much, if he doesn’t do something for himself?

For a second, Harry’s face is frozen, the expression unreadable. And then slowly, like the creeping sunrise, a smirk begins to form upon his lips.

“A _kiss?_ ” He says in a singsong voice, waggling his eyebrows like some kind of rake. “Why, _Lewis_ , I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Louis feels the weight lift from his limbs, the sudden wave of dread fading away, as he smiles back.

“You wouldn’t deny a man on his last day of freedom, would you?”

Harry cocks his head to one side. “Freedom?”

Louis lets out a sigh, his head falling back against the side of the barn. “My mother is joining us tonight for Christmas. Then we travel back on Boxing Day. Back to Manchester. Back to…everything.”

He doesn’t bother to expand. It would only drag things down, force his lips to form truths he has been running away from. The life that is just waiting to be written for him, brought into the barn to catch up to him by his own voice? He doesn’t want that.

“Louis,” he hears Harry say quietly, and when he looks up Harry is watching him with a solemn expression, eyebrows creased together as though taking in a wounded animal. Not in a hawkish way, nor a condescending one, but in a manner of absolute empathy. As though he _knows_. And well, Louis thinks, maybe he does.

Louis closes his eyes, tries to smooth the lines from his face and focus on pushing that ballooning, billowing nausea inside him back down. And then he feels a hand on his knee, and when he opens them, Harry is there in his space, looking at him so intensely Louis can’t believe it’s real. Like he can see Louis, properly, every little part of him that Louis tries so hard to hide behind his jokes and his sarcasm.

He’s never had anyone look at him like that.

Then Harry moves, cautiously in towards him, until his lips brush at Louis’. He’s gentle, hesitant, and Louis thinks that in all likelihood neither of them have ever done this before.

Louis lets his eyes close again, lets Harry take the lead. Harry pushes in closer, his hands settling on Louis’ shoulders as the kiss grows deeper, longer, Harry’s lips parting against Louis' own. Louis reaches for Harry’s shirt, grabs at the front of it as desire rushes through him. Harry is strong and solid and warm, and Louis has never felt like this, never once with the girls that have tried to win him over, demanding kisses from him when they found themselves alone. Those times it had been still, and staid, but this. This is something ferocious, something unchecked, it roars inside him as he pulls Harry down until his knees are either side of Louis’ legs.

Harry pushes Louis’ back hard against the wall as one hand runs up into Louis’ hair, his tongue flicking out into Louis’ mouth, and Louis lets out a noise that he wouldn’t be proud of if he could actually form coherent thought at this point.

He forces himself to pull back, so that he can see Harry as he is now. Harry’s cheeks are flushed, his eyes slightly glazed, and he’s breathing heavily as he kneels over Louis, staring at him with surprise and hunger and fear and _want_.

“ _Harry_ ,” Louis whispers, and Harry doesn’t wait for him to finish the thought. Louis doesn’t even know what it would have been. He just lets Harry surge back against him, their lips meeting forcefully as they strain to get more of each other.

An impulse flashes through Louis’ mind, and he thinks, _fuck it_ , follows it through. One of his hands is still fisted in Harry’s shirt, and he lets the other slide up underneath the fabric, running over Harry’s torso. He splays his fingers over Harry’s ribs, brushes tentatively at a nipple and feels immense satisfaction when Harry makes a noise against him, his whole body leaning into the contact.

And he needs to stop, _now_ , he needs to stop before this gets out of hand. He wrenches himself back, tries not to let the little whine Harry lets out get to him.

“Harry,” he breathes, as Harry leans in to run his teeth over Louis’ neck. “ _Fuck_ , Harry, _we can’t do this.”_

“I could do this all day,” Harry replies against Louis’ skin, his tongue darting out as he runs kisses down to Louis collarbone. He’s surprisingly forceful, almost possessive, and it’s more than Louis can take.

“Jesus, you’re a handful,” Louis gets out, unable to stop the way he tilts his head back to let Harry get at him, his body responding in ways he’s actively trying to prevent.

“You have _no_ idea,” Harry growls, and Louis actually moans at this, and then he’s grabbing Harry by the back of his collar and pulling him up to get more of him, to bring their lips back together so that Louis can remember this, remember the way Harry tastes, remember the heat of his lips and the insistence of his tongue.

Then he pushes at Harry’s shoulders so that Harry rolls back, falling in a heap at Louis’ feet and looking a little like a kicked puppy.

“ _Louis_ ,” he whines, and Louis shakes his head.

“Enough, Harry,” he says firmly, almost angrily. He wonders if he looks as much of a mess as Harry does, his hair completely out of sorts, pupils blown out and lips swollen. Louis squeezes his eyes shut, tries to get some of the blood to come back up to his head.

“I don’t understand,” Harry says quietly. When Louis opens his eyes, Harry is looking at him in confusion, in hurt, and Louis feels something inside him ache.

“I can’t let you keep going.” Louis sighs, lets his head drop down against his chest. “I’ll miss it too much if you do.”

It comes out quietly, hangs in the air between them.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, and it cuts at Louis in every way imaginable.

“Please don’t be,” Louis says forcefully, staring at Harry. “That’s the last thing I want you to be.”

“Ok,” Harry says, and the tiniest hint of a smile flickers over his lips, just the beginnings of one, but it’s more than there was before. Then he glances up to the roof, eyes widening as he listens. “The rain’s eased off.”

Louis feels a sinking feeling in his stomach. This is it. His time is up.

They’re silent as they pack Harry’s saddlebags and lead Gawain out of the barn. The rain is a light drizzle now, almost a mist more than anything, and Harry is glaring at the clouds as though they’d personally offended him. It’s incredibly endearing, and something inside Louis hurts as he watches.

“You’ll want to follow the main road for about ten minutes, you’ll end up in the village centre,” Harry says, not looking at him.

“Harry,” Louis says, but Harry is fiddling with Gawain’s reigns.

“I assume from there you’ll be able to find your property again, and –”

“ _Harry_ ,” Louis says again, reaching for Harry’s shoulder. He pulls a little, so that Harry is forced to turn and face him. God, he looks young, younger even than Louis feels right now.

“I know,” Harry sighs, turning properly to face him, and the two of them fall together. It’s not a kiss, not out in the open like this, though Louis wishes he could have another just to keep him going. But Harry wraps his long arms around Louis’ back and pulls him close, and Louis breathes deeply against Harry’s neck. There's a connection between them, unspoken but tangible, because they are the same, Louis and Harry. They'll always be the same.

“You’ll be ok, Louis,” Harry murmurs against Louis’ forehead, and Louis shakes his head slightly, almost petulantly.

“You don’t know that,” he says, and Harry huffs out a small laugh.

“I do. Because if someone like you can’t be, then I have no chance in hell.”

Louis looks up at him, at Harry’s earnest gaze, the sadness that already lines his young eyes. In that instant, Louis doesn’t care about anything else. He reaches up on his toes, and presses a kiss to Harry’s cheek, just one, just enough that if someone saw it could be passed off as an innocent whisper. Then he pulls away, watches as Harry mounts his horse.

They’ll be ok. They’ll have to be.

“I’m glad you nearly ran me over with your horse,” Louis mumurs, and Harry smiles.

“Happy birthday, Louis,” Harry replies quietly, already turning his horse away, and he doesn’t look back as he canters down the lane.

Louis takes a deep breath. The air smells of rainfall, the cold chill nipping at him as he exhales mist. His new life is waiting.

They’ll be ok.

 _It’s just not the time_ , Fate thinks, her brow furrowing as she bites her lip and tries not to feel like she’s let these boys down.

 

 

_Ardennes Forest, 1944_

Fate didn’t mean to look away. But there was just so much happening in so little a space. So many lives on her dangling thread.

The gunshot can’t be distinguished amidst the noise, the single bullet just one in hundreds, thousands, fired across the frost and mud and rain into the cold evening.

Louis doesn’t hear it coming, doesn’t see it, barely even realises it’s struck him until he reaches his arm forward to pull him that extra few feet and finds the rivulets of blood running down in, the pain searing through him. He lets out a gasp, frozen where he lies in the snow, a hail of bullets all around him coming from the concealed enemy lines up ahead.

“Fuck,” he swears, and he hears Liam beside him gasp,

“ _Louis?”_

“Fuck fuck fuck,” Louis hisses between his teeth, pain thrumming through his whole body now, white lights blinking behind his eyes. He can hear a rushing noise in his ears, feels Liam’s hands on his shoulders which only makes the pain worse, and someone is screaming for a medic. Then the gunfire starts up again, and he squeezes his eyes closed, because it’s too much, there’s just too much of everything. He just wants to stop, wants to lie there in the snow, and let the darkness that’s threatening the corners of his mind take him away from this.

Then someone is pulling him by the waist, clumsily he is moving sideways as someone drags him towards a nearby smattering of trees.

“Louis, would you bloody well help me?” It’s Liam who’s pulling him, but Louis just lets out a moan. “You’re not dying you arse, you’re not bloody dying right now ok?”

It’s just that Liam’s tone is a little hysterical, so Louis isn’t sure he believes him. He thinks he should probably tell Liam as much.

“You need to work on your acting, Li,” he manages to get out weakly as Liam heaves the two of them behind a fallen log. Louis feels his head roll back against the wood, but it’s too much effort to lift it, to look and see the damage. He’s made of pain, and cold, and terror, and it’s all he can do to keep his mind still working. He hears Liam call out for a medic again, then feels Liam move beside him.

“I’m going to get help. Stay there, Lou.”

“Not going anywhere,” Louis replies quietly, almost able to get a laugh out. He feels Liam press one gloved hand to his cheek.

“Don’t be a git.”

“Jesus, you could be a bit nicer to me on my way out the door,” Louis replies, and he forces his eyes open to find Liam staring at him with tears in his own.

“You’re not dying, Lou. Not now, ok? Just hold on.” Liam pushes their foreheads together, scrunches his eyes closed as he bites back the emotions inside him, and then he pulls away, gets up and begins to run.

Louis is drifting, floating. Liam was an anchor, always had been since the moment they met, before Louis corrupted that serious boy into someone a bit more relaxed, a bit more open to believing that he could still be loved even _if_ he glued the entire dorm’s shoes to their bedposts.

Now Louis is alone with the frost and snow, the dappled forest of ice, and the incessant noise. Shots are being fired sporadically nearby, but he’s lost the ability to discern from where. He lays his head back against the snow, and lets his eyes close.

It’s his birthday. The thought flashes through his mind. This is happening on his birthday. What kind of idiot gets shot on their birthday?

There’s darkness for a bit, the ephemeral noise of metallic death swirling through his thoughts and divorcing him from reality. Time passes. Snowflakes settle on his nose. Time passes some more.

He opens his eyes when he feels hands shaking him, gently gripping his knees.

“Private?”

Another shake. The voice is low, rough, large hands warm where they’ve settled on Louis’ frozen legs. “Private Tomlinson, you alive?”

Louis wheezes a laugh, his eyes snapping open at this with more energy than he thought he had.

“I’m sorry?”

There’s a medic looking down at him, young and beautiful, and Louis can see that his expression is warm, his eyes a little crinkled at the edges. His helmet is slightly too big for him so that it slips down almost all the way to his eyes; that would be ridiculous enough, but somehow the branches stuck in the netting as a means of camoflage make it seem even worse. Louis almost laughs.

“So that’s a yes then,” the medic just replies, and he moves, suddenly. Louis feels a sharp pain in his thigh.

“Fucking hell,” Louis gasps, and the medic makes an apologetic face.

“Morphine,” he explains, waving a little syringe in front of Louis’ face.

“You could give a man some warning first,” Louis complains, but even as he blinks away the shock of it he can feel warmth creeping through his veins, the pain in his shoulder beginning to dull slightly.

“Well then, here’s the next warning.”

“For what?” Louis gets out, and then the medic leans over and places a clean rag on Louis’ wound, pushing down with his all his weight. “Jesus fucking Christ!”

The medic just raises his eyebrows, transfers his weight onto one hand as with the other and his teeth he manages to open a sachet of plasma. He lifts the rag and sprinkles it on the wound, and then the pressure is back.

“You really don’t know the meaning of mercy, do you?” Louis grits out.

“And you swear a lot,” the medic observes, sounding like a man who’d made a fascinating discovery. He opens his mouth to say something more, but is cut off by the shuddering roar of gunfire starting up again. Louis thinks the sound might be further now then it was before, and the medic is staring off to their right. A frown flickers over his features, and he swears quietly under his breath, turning back to Louis.

“Where is everyone?” Louis asks, because he and Liam hadn’t been alone, there had been the radio operator Niall, and Corporal Malik too, though they’d been forced away by a rogue sniper. Their tight knit band must have been scattered through the forest. They hadn’t been that far from the line, but it had seemed like the Germans were everywhere.

“We’re cut off,” Harry mutters. “Our unit has been engaged along the Western perimeter of the line, so the only way back is over open ground.”

Ah, the field, that infernal bloody field. It had been pristine snow an hour ago. Now it was littered with bullet shells and blood. Trying to get across it is what had landed Louis in this mess in the first place. They’d been metres from the perimeter of the trees, but it hadn’t been enough.

Oblivious to his thoughts but still in parallel, the medic sighs. “We might be stuck here for a little while.”

“Well, I suppose it’s not like I’m raring to go.” Louis wishes he sounded more cool, more calm and collected, but instead it comes out breathy, a little high pitched. He’s beginning to feel the morphine in his head as well as his body, but he’s still retained enough presence of thought to realise, in a sudden, swooping, horrible moment of clarity, what being cut off means.

Because he’s bleeding out. He knows it. He can feel the warmth of the blood rolling down his arm, even despite the pressure from the medic’s efforts. He’d going to bleed out, and pass out, and without the warmth or stitches or a blood transfusion that he could get if he’d been hauled back to the medical camp, he’s going to die, right here, in the snow.

It’s absolutely unfathomable. Even after all the friends he’d seen die on the front. Even after repeating to himself that it could happen to him. Any day, any moment, it could happen, he would think at night.

Something clenches inside him, and he feels like he’s drowning on dry land, feels dizzy and sick with it. Because it’s only now, now as its happening, that he realises he’d never truly believed it. Never, not once, had he thought that this was how it would end for him.

And then another thought crashes into him, through him, tearing the wind from his lungs.

“Fuck, Liam’s not going to make it back to me,” he gasps, looking wildly up at the medic, who meets his gaze with a furrowed brow.

“Was Liam the one who got me? Private Payne?”

“That’s the one. Best name for a soldier you’ve ever heard, right?”

The medic looks down, as though guilty. As though somehow this is his fault. “He was held up on the other side of the line. I’m sorry, Louis.”

Louis bites his lip as he calls up Liam’s tearful face as he’d run off into the forest. That’ll have been it, then. The last goodbye. He can’t really process that, can’t quite comprehend being torn away like this. He’d been friends with Liam since the first day of training, two scared boys called up for something they barely understood.

God, he _has_ to focus on something else or he’s going to lose it. Which is impossible really, because now Louis wonders why the medic knows his first name, and Liam probably told him. Which is a bit unfair, because-

“I don’t know your name,” Louis says, relieved when his voice doesn’t tremble the way he feels it should. “I’d at least like to know who I’m dying in the arms of.”

He's not sure how he can still make jokes, not now that the last vestiges of bravado in his tone have disappeared. He sounds scared even to his own ears, and he doesn’t know if it’s the morphine or the reality of his situation finally sinking in, but he really doesn’t care.

“You’re not-”

“Spare me,” Louis says, shutting his eyes for a moment. It’s getting hard to hold them open. “You _just_ told me we’re cut off, so it’s not like you can get me back to base camp. We both know what that means. Please don’t lie to me.”

Louis breaks himself off with a small coughing fit, his chest feeling constricted on the wounded side. It barely registers though, not under the weight of the morphine and everything else. Not when Liam has left him for good. Not when Louis is going to be another dead body for his unit to stand over, to stare at, to mourn.

The medic doesn’t answer. Louis can hear him breathing though, and when he opens his eyes, the medic is staring at him with this intense sadness on his features. Louis wonders if he looks this way at all his patients. Or maybe just all his lost causes. He’s got a kind of gentleness to his face, like a fawn maybe. This is no place for someone like that, surely.

“Harry,” the medic says, quietly. “I’m Harry.”

“Lovely to meet you, Harry,” Louis whispers, but without the bite and spark of his usual utterances it just comes out sounding forlorn. He rallies a little. He’s not going out in a pile of self-pity. “Now tell me, what’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?”

This makes Harry laugh, and Louis likes that. He doesn’t have to bring this bright-eyed boy down with him. This can be his mission, while he waits out the last of his energy. This can be what keeps him focused.

Harry seems to consider him for a moment, as if weighing up his options. And then something lively sparks in his gaze.

“Thought I’d take a nice vacation in Europe,” Harry says slowly, his mouth twisting in a demented kind of grin that Louis hadn’t expected him capable of. “See the sites. Heard it was lovely this kind of year.”

Louis smiles weakly, unable to manage much more than that. “And how did that work out for you?”

“Well the scenery isn’t bad, but it’s full of bloody Germans.”

Louis laughs at this, unable to stop himself, and then he’s immediately curling inwards with the pain of it. It’s still there, despite the morphine, dull and constant, but now it crackles back to life for a few excruciating moments. It radiates from his shoulder, and he feels Harry trying to push down on him, steady him, perhaps pull his shoulder back together.

“Kind of pointless, you know,” Louis whispers. “You can let go of my shoulder if you want.”

“I don’t want to,” Harry says, and his voice sounds small, almost petulant. “I’m a medic. I’m supposed to help you.”

Louis looks at him, properly looks, drinks in the last face he gets to see. He can’t be older than Louis, is probably a few years younger. From somewhere a bit posher than Yorkshire. Louis wonders if he’d been telling at least part of the truth, if he’d volunteered for this. If he’d asked to be a medic, or been randomly assigned. He wonders a lot of things all of a sudden, since it’s just him and this boy at the end of the world.

“Tell me about yourself, Harry.”

Harry looks confused. “You want-”

“Tell me about your home,” Louis says, trying to ignore the pinpricks behind his eyes at the words. Trying to ignore the images of his mother, of his sisters, of his best friend Stan that wants to swamp his memories and drown him. He squeezes his eyes shut again, just for a second, just to fight it off. He can outlast the awful loss that’s coursing through him. He can do that.

Harry has to wait for the newest round gunfire to subside a bit before he can oblige.

“I grew up with my mother and my older sister. They're brilliant, they're doing volunteer work with war refugees.” He sighs, his eyes on where his fingers press into Louis’ shoulder, but unfocused and far away. Louis wonders what he is seeing. “I was reading Law at Cambridge, living in halls. My roommate Ed is fighting somewhere in Japan now. I miss them all. I miss being home.”

He stops for second after his voice wavers a little, and Louis wonders if this is hurting Harry too much, if it was cruel to ask him. But before he can tell Harry to stop, Harry picks back up again.

“I used to walk by the river on summer evenings. I miss that. The boats up and down the water, the punters. And the local dance hall. I miss strawberries.” His voice seems to strengthen as he goes, as though the memories give him something, give him hope. He scrunches his nose a little, fondness seeping into his eyes. “I miss the radio. I miss my cat.”

Louis catches his gaze, wonders how this boy can still call those memories back with such clarity, still feel their warmth. Louis has been nothing but cold for so long now.

“I’m sorry you’re here, Harry,” he says gently, but Harry shakes his head fiercely.

“I’m not. I have to be here, to protect them. It’s the best thing I’ll ever do.” He looks down at Louis, his expression blazing all of a sudden. It’s fascinating, how expressive his features are, how quickly they change. “You too, Louis. The best thing you’ve ever done.”

“I don’t know,” Louis says. He sounds so lost to his own ears. “I don’t know about that, Harry.”

He can’t help but think of all the times he’s fired his gun. He doesn’t know how many people might have been ended by him, by his bullets. He wonders if any of them died alone.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Louis gets out. He’s feeling tired now, so god damn tired, and it’s an effort just to make his lips form words. “I’m so sorry you are, though.” He’s repeating himself. It doesn’t matter. Of course it doesn’t.

“I’m sorry you are too,” Harry replies quietly, his words sincere. He’s looking at Louis as though they’d known each other all their lives, as if he’s losing a dear friend. Louis wonders if Harry has watched a lot of people die while trying to save them. He must have. It must be exhausting.

“You should find Liam. Best person I’ve ever met, he’ll protect you,” Louis murmurs. He wonders where Liam is, feet or miles away, fighting to get back to Louis. He doesn’t want to think about what will happen when he finally does.

His mind is hazy, his body is cold, and he just watches Harry as Harry nods. Watches him blink the tears from his lashes, and wonders why Harry is crying over him. Wishes he couldn’t feel tears forming in his own eyes.

“I was too late,” Harry whispers, eyes downcast.

“To save me?” Louis breathes.

“No, to-” Harry stops mid-sentence, looking slightly confused, his voice a little scratchy. “No, I…I don’t know what I was going to say.”

There’s a tear rolling down his cheek, and Louis wants to reach for it, to wipe it away. He feels tenderly towards Harry, in that second. He feels protective. He feels utter, aching hopelessness that soon they won’t be together any more, and he wants to focus on that, wants to understand, because it's a stray thought that came from nowhere. But never mind, he thinks. It will go nowhere, as well.

“It’s my birthday,” Louis whispers instead, because he hadn’t told anyone, not even Liam, had kept it to himself. He hadn’t wanted to celebrate his birthdays, not until he was home again. But he feels like someone should know. Maybe it was a bad idea, because Harry looks like he’s been bludgeoned, and his teary eyes have completely given up trying to hold anything back.

It doesn’t matter. Louis will go nowhere, now. He lifts his gaze, away from Harry’s tearful watch, up to the canopy of the trees above them. Night has crept in fully now, the stars veiled behind an endless sea of clouds.

“You were right. Scenery is beautiful, here,” he says, watching the branches sway in the icy wind. “Might come back. After all this.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Harry nod, but he doesn’t have the energy to turn his head.

The trees are moving ceaselessly, endlessly, rolling like waves and blurring into each other and the sky as the gunfire dims into distant beckoning thunder.

Fate turns away. She doesn’t want to see the light leave Louis’ eyes. But more than that, she doesn’t want to see the desolation and heart ache that will be written on Harry’s features; the profound, shaking loss that he will feel even though he doesn’t understand why.

 _Next time_ , she thinks as she closes her eyes, silently making a promise to herself. She’ll get it right next time. She owes them that.

_London, 2013_

“Because,” Louis says, staring his friend down. “It’s my birthday, Liam.”

“Not for much longer,” Zayn calls from the couch, and Louis just gives him the finger without sparing him a glance.

“Exactly, it’s your birthday,” Liam replies languidly, apparently ignoring Zayn as he throws the last of the paper cups into his bag of trash. It hadn’t been a large party; they couldn’t fit more than about twenty people in the apartment anyway. “You should let one of us go.”

“Correction, you should let Liam go,” Niall contributes from next to Zayn, and then adds, “Yesssss” as he manages some feat in whatever game they’re playing.

Louis shakes his head, fingers already lacing up his shoes.

“I want to, I feel like it.” He gets up, glancing over at where Niall and Zayn are still on the Xbox, the last stragglers in his and Liam’s apartment.  “You layabouts have no intention of going home, do you.”

“Not in the slightest,” Niall replies vaguely, not bothering to look away from the TV screen. Louis rolls his eyes. With their families back in their respective hometowns, it’s not the first time the four of them have woken up on Christmas Day together. He might pretend to be disgruntled, but honestly it’s something that makes Louis feel warm and fuzzy inside, something that injects an air of magic back into Christmas morning that he thought he’d resigned to his childhood.

Louis vaults out of the apartment and into the cold air before he can be harassed by further protests from Liam. The walk to the off-license is only three blocks, and it closes at midnight. He needs to get going.

He shrugs his coat on as he trips through the still and quiet streets. It’s a little past eleven thirty on Christmas Eve, and most of the world has gone to bed, though he thinks he might be able to make out the distant thumping bass of a Christmas party somewhere in his vicinity. There’s a thin layer of slush on the ground that threatens to slip him as he wanders. God, a bit of snowfall around the holidays had seemed like a miracle when he was young. Now it’s just a health hazard. He needs some fucking ice skates to make it through this.

As he nears the little string of local shops in his suburb, the faint notes of something sweet drift through the air to meet him. It gets louder as he gets closer, transforms from an indecipherable noise into the obvious sound of someone singing. The voice is low and rich with a slight rasp to it, and it climbs the octaves with apparent ease, the gorgeous sound sending shivers down Louis’ spine. Louis can’t help but smile as he crosses the road, the words becoming discernible.

“ _When we finally kiss goodnight, how I hate going out in the storm. But if you really hold me tight, all the way home I’ll be warm.”_

He stifles a laugh, and then pauses, because he’s reached the off-license and that’s apparently where the singing is coming from. He hovers on the threshold, waiting for whoever it is to finish.

_“Oh the fire is slowly dying, and my dear we’re still goodbyeing. But as long as you love me so, let it snow let it snow let it snow.”_

As the voice drifts into silence, Louis pushes the door open, the little bell jangling as he enters the shop. He is brought to another immediate standstill as his gaze falls on an enormous set of foam reindeer antlers bobbing above the counter.

“Err,” he stutters, and the antlers whip upwards, revealing their owner as he straightens himself upright. And, _um._ “Hi.”

“Hi!” The boy is grinning at him, and Louis can’t think of anything to say, because his eyes are so green and his hair so curly, and the way his white t-shirt clings to his shoulders and falls over his chest is insane. He’s truly beautiful, something incandescent in the way he holds himself with ease, in the genuine set of his smile. He’s like something that should have inspired the Romantic poets. Coleridge could have written sonnets about this boy. God knows he produced enough about trees.

Louis is struck by the strangest sense of déjà vu.

He shakes himself, trying to get it together. It’s unfair, is what it is. Louis had just wanted to buy some cheap wine. Louis should not have to contend with this fucking vision in front of him.

“You were singing,” Louis blurts out, as his eyes disregard his brain’s frantic attempts at achieving composure, choosing instead to trace the smattering of tattoos the boy has running over his arms and chest. The boy nods, his antlers jiggling and swaying with him. He doesn’t seem to be embarrassed by them. If anything, he looks delighted to have company.

“You heard that? Oops,” he says sheepishly, voice low like honeyed wine, and his smile produces dimples in his cheeks. Louis thinks this is a particularly cruel addition to the maelstrom of delight and lust presently whirring through his brain.

“I know you,” is what the boys says next as his gaze falls more fully on Louis, his expression turning uncertain, his tone hesitant. Louis furrows his brow, shakes his head as he meets that unsure stare.

“I don’t think so,” Louis replies, because he might have been beset with a similar feeling just now, but that can’t be right. He sure as hell would have remembered it. He focuses on the name tag on the boy’s shirt.  

“I’m Louis. And you’re…Harry,” Louis says aloud, reading it as though he’s a fifth-grader sounding out an unfamiliar word. Jesus, when did a pretty face cause him to so catastrophically lose control of his facilities?

“That’s me,” the boy replies. “Here to service all your alcohol-related needs this fine evening.”

Louis snorts with laughter. “You’re remarkably chipper for someone working on Christmas Eve.”

Harry shrugs. “I have no plans for tomorrow. Family is back in Cheshire, couldn’t afford the trip back. The tough life of an impoverished student.”

“Ah yes, I know it well,” Louis says dryly. “Hence why tonight I shall be purchasing your finest boxed wine.”

“Will Monsieur be wanting the white, or the red?” Harry has put on a French accent. Harry is apparently an enormous dork. As if the reindeer antlers didn’t give that away. That’s, well. That’s rather wonderful.

“Whichever better masks the bitter taste of disaffected youth, please,” Louis supplies, and Harry bubbles with laughter, bursts with it as he swings out from behind the counter and makes for the lowest shelf on the nearby wall. He throws a glance back at Louis, as if he’s a little disbelieving that Louis is a person, which Louis can’t help but interpret as a good thing.

“Yes, I believe the 2013 Chardonnay should suffice,” Harry says, still affecting that accent, but it drops away when he adds, “Plus it’s only like three pounds.”

Louis pulls a face. “Jesus, maybe I should scale up. I’m not sure I trust any form of wine that costs less than a Tescos ready-meal.”

Harry reaches up and plucks a bottle of white from above where he’s crouching, then brings it over to the counter. “This is usually ten quid, but I’ll give you my employee discount so you can get it for half price. Wouldn’t want you to end up in hospital with liver poisoning on Christmas.”

Louis can’t help but stare a little, feeling like something a little bit miraculous is going on. He shakes it off, brings a hand dramatically to his chest.

“You’re that keen to get me drunk?” Louis asks in a scandalised tone, and Harry waggles his reindeer antlers in a jaunty manner, leaning forward in an attempt at a smouldering kind of look that fails due to the laughter in his eyes.

“I’m a sucker for a man who knows his cheap wine.”

Louis affects a sigh. “You’re pretty, Harry, but I can’t just be bought in one evening by your fancy non-boxed alcohol. What kind of boy do you think I am?”

And what is _happening_ , Louis thinks to himself in surprise as the words leave his mouth, because not only is Harry flirting with him, but he’s flirting with him in the same kind of way Louis always tries and fails at. Most guys don’t find the whole overdramatic and mildly facetious thing quite as alluring as Louis wishes they would. But Harry, Harry is game.

“It’s champagne and truffles every night for you, I’m sure,” Harry shoots back, his grin a little crooked and warmth radiating from every corner of his being. There’s the slightest tinge of a blush to his cheeks as he begins to ring the sale through, and Louis leans casually on the counter, watching him work. His hands are big. Really big. Louis’ mind goes somewhere terribly, terribly unhelpful.

“So, the singing before,” Louis says, forcing himself to affect a casual air as he pushes over some cash. “You’re good. Like, really good. Career good.”

Harry shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know. I’ve thought about it, I mean I’m doing a degree in business studies and I hate it. But dropping out seems…scary.” He pauses, blinks. “I’m sorry, was that an overshare?”

As far as Louis’ concerned, he’d be delighted if Harry decided to list every lunch he’s had for the past month to keep the conversation going. He decides this is probably a thought best kept to himself.

“Not at all. But there’s nothing wrong with scary,” Louis says instead, and Harry inclines his head as though he’s considering it.

“Maybe not,” Harry replies thoughtfully. “Sometimes I dare myself to do things that I find scary. Doesn’t always work out for the best though.” He shrugs, and Louis taps his finger pointedly on the counter.

“Maybe not. But that’s what I thought about moving to London. Things can seem so impossible, until you do them. Then it doesn’t matter how they turn out. They’re just…things.”

Harry snorts. “Beautiful choice of words. That was almost deep, Louis.”

“I’m an almost deep kind of guy,” Louis replies cheerfully.

“I almost auditioned for X-Factor one year,” Harry says nonchalantly, a twinkle in his eyes as he wraps the bottle of wine in a brown paper bag. “I could have sworn fate was telling me to, the way everything lined up.”

“But what happened?”

“I slept in,” Harry says with a laugh. “On the audition day.” His gaze catches on Louis’ own sudden and too serious stare, and Louis sees it register in his eyes. “What?”

“I just- ” Louis frowns. “I was going to one year too, you know? But a mate of mine went the day before and got rejected, and he was fifty times better than I was. So at the last minute I chickened out.” Louis blinks, surprised by the words rushing off his tongue. “I’ve never told anyone that before. Not even my friends.”

Harry is staring too now, the two of them caught like flies in a web on this strange coincidence. “Ok, on the count of three, tell me what year.”

Louis scrunches his face up at him, but agrees. Harry counts quietly, and after three they both say, “Two thousand and ten.”

There’s a moment of ringing silence between them, as if something deeply significant has just occurred, though Louis doesn’t really understand it. He feels something tingle down his spine, something catch in his chest. And then Harry bursts into quiet laughter, and the spell is broken.

“We might have met,” Harry says cheerfully, and Louis grins back at him.

“We met now, though,” Louis replies, because it seems important to him. “On my twenty-second birthday, how about that.”

“Today?” Harry asks in disbelief, and Louis nods, checking his watch.

“Today, though there’s only like, seven minutes left of it.”

Harry starts at this. “Crap, I need to close up. I’ll only be a minute.” He looks cautiously at Louis. “Don’t suppose you’d wait? I don’t want to stop talking to you.”

He’s watching Louis with an almost guarded expression, his charming demeanour suddenly dimmed a little, and Louis thinks about Harry having to dare himself to do things that scare him. He wonders if Harry had to dare himself to ask. It doesn’t matter. This incredible boy wants him to wait, and Louis almost can’t believe his luck.

“Of course,” Louis replies. He snatches up his bottle of wine and shuffles out into the cold, curling into himself as he sits on the curb and watches the lights in the building go off.

He wonders how he’s never met Harry before at this particular shop. For a moment, Louis thinks that maybe he has, that that’s why Harry seems so familiar. But the way their conversation flows, the way they seem to be on the same wavelength, surely he can’t have had this before and let it slip from his memory. It already feels like the world has doubled in size and possibility just from one conversation with Harry.

It doesn’t take long before the door swings open and Harry fumbles out onto the street, keys in hand as he turns to lock up. When he’s done, he faces Louis with a beaming expression, as though he’s surprised Louis has actually stayed. The antlers are gone. Louis feels a mild pang of sadness at their loss. Harry seems like the kind of person who should always be wearing a silly hat.

“You’re here,” Harry says happily, and Louis pulls a face at him.

“You asked me to be,” he replies, like it’s obvious. It feels obvious. He wishes he knew why, but he figures he probably shouldn’t question it.

“I know, but,” Harry gestures broadly and undefinably, “I just sold you a bottle of wine, and you probably have places to be.”

“You live round here too?” Louis asks, and Harry nods. “Right, tell you what. Why don’t you walk me home?”

Harry beams, offering Louis a hand to help him up. Then he’s crooking his elbow in a gentrified manner towards Louis, and Louis realises he’s offering Louis his arm as they begin to walk.

“You are a strange human being, Harry,” Louis says, taking the arm anyway just for the hell of it. It makes him feel a little bit Victorian, which is always fun.

“I might be just that,” is Harry’s response. He checks his watch, and stops abruptly in the middle of the road. It’s not as though there’s a lot of traffic, thankfully, but it still makes Louis ever so slightly nervous.

“What?” Louis asks, craning his neck to see what Harry is looking at just as Harry drops his hand again, and meets Louis’ expression with a slightly wild one.

“Louis, your birthday ends in one minute. Quickly,” he demands, like it’s life-or-death at that moment.

“Quickly what?” Louis asks confusedly, and Harry shakes his head.

“I don’t know!” With his wide eyes and spiralling hair, Harry looks rather comical. “Do something!”

“Do something?” Louis parrots again weakly, unable to keep himself from laughing through it. “Do what, Harry?”

“To mark it! To mark your – bugger.” Harry’s brought his hand back up and Louis follows his eyeline, sees that his watch reads midnight. Harry seems to deflate slightly. “We missed it.”

“ _You_ missed it. I had a party earlier. Besides,” Louis says, “Now it’s Christmas. The most wonderful day of the year.”

“Christmas isn’t as good as birthdays,” Harry says, almost pouting. Louis shakes his head fondly.

“It is when they’re one after the other. Merry Christmas, Harry.” A smirk crosses his expression as he adds dryly, “Quick, do something.”

“What?”

“To mark the occasion!” Louis returns mockingly, fondly, as he beams up at Harry.

The light of the street lamps glints in Harry’s eyes as a foreign look comes over his features, sort of determined and steely, like he’s waiting for Louis to stop him from doing whatever he’s planning.

“What?” Louis asks nervously, and something seems to settle over Harry.

“Just daring myself,” Harry says. And then he moves forward, leaning down slightly to meet Louis’ lips with his own.

The sudden shock of it rings through the night, like Louis and Harry are at the epicentre of a mile-wide explosion. Or maybe that’s all just happening inside Louis, he can’t be quite sure. Harry’s lips are a little chapped from the cold, but Louis doesn’t mind because he’s too caught up in the sensation of how close Harry is, how his palm is pressed warmly against Harry’s chest while the other hangs at his side with the wine, how _right_ this feels, which is patently insane all things considered. Harry kisses Louis gently, unprovocatively, just sweet and slow and then pulls back.

“Was that,” he says, looking a little dazed, and Louis is sure his own expression has to be almost a mirror. “Was that ok? I met you like fifteen minutes ago, oh my god I’m sorry, I just wanted- ”

Before Louis can even process his words, Harry falters, his eyes darting over Louis’ shoulder. Shock ripples through his expression, and then one of his hands comes up to fist in Louis’ coat. For a bewildered second Louis’ kiss-addled brain thinks he’s going for another round, but then the lights hit him square in the eyes and the horn sounds, and he’s being wrenched in the direction of the pavement.

“Christ,” Harry pants out as they stumble for balance, letting go of Louis. Louis turns to see a car careening off down the street, driving much too fast for the area they’re in. It’s one of those obnoxiously big 4WDs as well, which no one in the city actually needs. He would have been roadkill in seconds.

It takes several seconds for all of this to process, for Louis’ brain to catch up. When it does, Louis turns on Harry, who is hunched over with hands on knees. He’s staring up at Louis in bewilderment, like he can’t quite believe that just happened, and Louis is right there with him.

“You saved me,” Louis says slowly, the words registering properly as he lets them out. Harry shakes his head.

“I kissed you in the middle of the street. It’s my fault we were standing there.”

“That’s not the important part,” Louis says dismissively. “That could have been my doing just as easily, I didn’t exactly fight you on it.”

He can’t help the smile that’s spreading itself across his features, lighting up something inside him, filling him up.

“You _saved_ me,” he says again, reaching for Harry’s coat, his hand fisting in Harry’s lapels as he drags the boy upright and towards him. Their lips meet again, Louis pushing at Harry’s still open mouth with his own and pulling Harry into him.

Sparks ignite in his stomach as Harry responds, sliding his tongue over Louis’ teeth as Louis opens up to him. Harry makes a tiny noise in the back of his throat as one hand runs up the nape of Louis’ neck, and Louis sighs into his touch, into their easy intimacy. It’s so natural to him, kissing Harry, as though Louis has done this a hundred times before. As though Harry is a part of him he’d lost, and now been reunited with. And where in the seven hells did that thought come from?

When they part, Harry’s cheeks are flushed, his hair a little windswept, and he looks for all the world like he’s been bludgeoned over the head.

“So somebody has a hero fetish,” is his first sentence, and Louis thwacks him on the shoulder.

“You’re ruining it,” he whines, and Harry laughs, his body shaking with it where it’s pressed against Louis’ own. “Besides, I was gone for you the second I heard you singing. The knight in shining armour thing is just a bonus.”

He’s grinning as he says it, his face so close to Harry’s, and he can see the glimmer in Harry’s eyes as they gaze down at him affectionately.

“I just met you fifteen minutes ago,” Harry says for the second time that evening, slower now and without the note of panic in his voice. Now it’s just wonder, disbelief, and god but Louis understands.

“I know,” Louis replies quietly. “Doesn’t feel like it though.”

“Must be the magic of Christmas,” Harry states dramatically, holds his serious expression for a second longer than Louis thought possible, and then bursts into laughter. Louis can’t help but join in, leaning forward til his forehead meets Harry’s collarbone as he giggles into Harry’s neck.

“Thank god we ran out of wine at home,” he says.

“Must have been destiny,” Harry says, and Louis looks up, nods.

“Fate,” he confirms, beaming up at Harry. “You’re kind of perfect, you know that?”

“I know that. There’s no way you do though. You barely know me.”

“But I do,” Louis says, and he thinks it might be a little bit true, because Harry wore antlers at work, and sings Christmas carols when no one is around, and gave a stranger his staff discount, and asked Louis to stay. Harry dared himself, and kissed Louis in the street to mark the start of his twenty-second year, and pulled him out of the path of an oncoming vehicle. Harry believes in destiny and birthdays and the magic of Christmas and -

“What’s my last name?” Harry asks. Louis’s grin falters, but only a little.

“Details,” he says, waving the hand with the wine in it dismissively. “Mine’s Tomlinson, by the way.”

“Styles,” Harry replies, and Louis grins.

“Spend Christmas with me, Harry Styles.”

Harry laughs at this, a full-bodied bark of a thing. “What?”

“You don’t have any plans, you said so earlier. My friends and I are just having takeaway at our apartment. We’ll probably get drunk and tell bad jokes. We’ll agree to watch some action films and then someone will put _Love Actually_ on instead. It would be better with you.”

“That sounds kind of amazing, actually,” Harry says, and his expression is soft, but hesitant. He’s still pressed against Louis though. “Louis.”

“Harry,” Louis replies sternly.

“We can’t have our first date on Christmas.”

“Who says?”

“Common decorum,” Harry replies with an expansive sweep of one hand.

“So you’ll kiss me in the street without asking permission, but you’re too scared to make the next move? Shame on you, Harry Styles,” Louis says sweetly, and pokes his tongue out at Harry.

“You’re impossible, Louis. Do people tell you that a lot? I bet they do,” Harry says, and his smile hasn’t left his eyes, hasn’t deserted the corners of his mouth, even though his expression has clouded ever so slightly. “You’re not scared.”

“Scared of what?” Louis asks, and Harry shrugs.

“Things not working out.”

Louis stares at him. “I think you’re getting a bit ahead of yourself, Styles. I’m just asking you to lunch.” He waggles his eyebrows, and Harry swats him on the shoulder.

“Louis!”

Louis sighs, staring down at his feet for a second as he contemplates the strangeness of the universe. Of this night. Of how he doesn’t feel the slightest bit worried about Harry, or Christmas, or anything at the moment. He feels calm, and happy, and centred. He feels _right_.

“Ok,” he says, glancing back up to meet Harry’s eyes, and the flicker of doubt on Harry’s features is like sunshine on a rainy day, because it means Harry thinks he’s giving up. No, it means Harry doesn’t _want_ him to give up, and that’s all Louis needs.

“My name is Louis William Tomlinson. I was born in Doncaster on Christmas Eve, 1991, and I’m studying to be an English teacher. My favourite movie is _Grease_ , and I skateboard in my spare time. I like the rain, and fireworks, and ice skating. I don’t trust Apple, and I cry at war documentaries. I wish I had a cat but my roommate’s allergic. I can’t function in the morning without tea.” Louis stops, letting out a breath. Harry is watching him with an unreadable expression, but there’s something in his eyes that Louis knows. Louis breathes in. He’s nearly there. “I think you’re beautiful, Harry Styles. Everything about you is beautiful. And I don’t need hours and days and months to know that I’d like to keep seeing you, if you’ll let me. So come to my fucking Christmas lunch, please and thankyou.”

The silence left by Louis lasts only a second, and then Harry is laughing, just laughing, his hands reaching for Louis’ shoulders as they fall into each other, another kiss as big as the universe and as close as the brush of eyelashes on cheeks.

“Ok,” he says finally, their lips almost touching though they’ve officially pulled apart. Harry leans his forehead against Louis’. “Ok, Louis Tomlinson.”

“Yessss,” Louis whispers, one fist clenched in a victory pose as Harry giggles. “Knew it. You’ve fallen head over heels for me, haven’t you Styles. God, I only met you this evening, you loon.”

He can’t stop the smile that seems like it will never leave his features, that is itching to break him apart and replace him with nothing but light and happiness. When he sees Harry’s own grin threatening to overwhelm the boy, it feels like this is it. Not that he knows what _it_ is.

But it sure as hell is something.

 

 

_Here, when I say I never want to be without you,_   
_somewhere else I am saying_   
_I never want to be without you again. And when I touch you_   
_in each of the places we meet,_

_in all of the lives we are, it's with hands that are dying_   
_and resurrected._   
_When I don't touch you it's a mistake in any life,_   
_in each place and forever._

Bob Hicok, ‘Other Lives and Dimensions and Finally a Love Poem’

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Bright Eyes song of (almost) the same name.
> 
> The poem that Harry reads in the Victorian era is 'Kubla Khan' by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, because if it wasn't already abundantly clear, I am a pretentious dork who loves poetry.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [compassanddragon](http://compassanddragon.tumblr.com).


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